


Glowing

by yeaka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drinking, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-24 00:32:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/628251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gryffindor wins a Quidditch match, and Percy (almost) misses the party.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glowing

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.
> 
> A/N: This isn’t properly British. Ages are undefined, but underage applies below seventh year.

He can still hear it.

He’s tried several spells, of course. Every one in the book that’s meant to stifle sound. He’s cast them on the whole room, from floor to ceiling, and all over the door. But no matter how hard he tries, he can still hear the loud thrumming of music and cheers pulsing one floor below.

Percy’s about to go in search of muggle ear plugs when the door opens. It lets in a very loud, unwanted burst of energy.

“Great party!” Oliver yells at him, before promptly slamming the door closed again. The air returns to a relatively muffled buzz: still nowhere near the silence Percy prefers to study in. He has a Transfiguration test coming up on Thursday he would very much like an ‘O’ on. Technically speaking, Oliver does too.

But Oliver doesn’t seem nearly as concerned about that as Percy and just semi-stumbles over to his bed, about a meter away from Percy’s. There’s a desk on the other side of the room, a door to Percy’s right, and a tall tower window to his left. He has his Transfiguration textbook open in his lap and a rather lengthy piece of parchment resting between the pages, scattered in various notes Oliver’s sure to borrow Wednesday night. The closer Oliver gets, the more Percy can smell the alcohol on him.

Oliver’s still mostly in his Quidditch uniform—white, muddy trousers he drags across the otherwise-clean floor, and a tight-fitting, gold-striped red jumper. Percy’s in his white, long-sleeved, button-up uniform shirt and tie. The usual. As Oliver lands atop his messy sheets, (Percy stopped making Oliver’s bed in first year, when it became apparent that Oliver wasn’t learning) he tugs his boots off, kicking them into the space between their beds. Percy blinks down at the offensively dirty objects and instinctively wrinkles his nose.

Honestly, he feels like Oliver’s housemaid sometimes—Merlin knows the room would never be clean otherwise. Sniffing in minor irritation, Percy pushes his horn-rimmed glasses further up his nose and continues reading.

This proves to be a rather difficult feat, as Oliver is apparently bent on being a distraction. “Why don’t you come join us, Perce?”

Percy doesn’t look over as he primly chirps, “Congratulations on your victory, Oliver.”

“Our victory,” Oliver corrects cheerily. “After this match we’re definitely going to win the Cup!”

“You played admirably,” Percy repeats, still without looking.

Oliver chuckles. “Well, at least you know what’s going on. How’d you find out? Heard the victory cries?”

Stiffening slightly, Percy finally glances sideways at Oliver. Oliver has his legs over the edge of the bed, somehow looking both slumped-over and poised-to-move. His face is bright like it always is after a match, dimples showing and brown hair messy. Percy tries to keep the disappointment off his face as he says, “I was at the game.” Not that’d he’d expect Oliver to notice him, but it’s still a little sad that Oliver would assume otherwise. (Although it is correct to assume he doesn’t go more often than not.)

“Really?” Oliver looks mildly surprised. “I thought you were studying—you don’t usually come to Quidditch matches...”

“I attend the important ones for Gryffindor,” Percy sniffs, neglecting to add, ‘yours, anyway.’

“Oh. Well, cool. And you thought I played good, yeah?”

“Well,” Percy corrects. He opens his mouth to elaborate, feels his cheeks grow a little hot, and closes it again without saying anything. It’s probably best not to mention just what he gets out of these games and inadvertently reveal just how closely he was in fact watching Oliver’s skills. His eyes rarely leave the goalposts during games. To be honest, Percy couldn’t care less who actually catches the Snitch or who currently has the Quaffle. Bludgers are similarly uninteresting, unless they’re flying at a certain Keeper’s head, in which case Percy tends to tense up in the stands.

Fortunately, Percy has a way of naturally blending into the crowd, and people don’t seem to notice. He knows he certainly isn’t missed from the pulsing celebration downstairs, despite Oliver’s invitation. When Oliver leans forward, forearms resting on his spread knees, and fails to say anything else, Percy gulps and manages, “You... er... flew excellently.”

“Thanks,” Oliver answers, grins widely, “I’m flattered you even noticed my flying. Harry’s the one that won us the game, though—and did you see that hit one of the twins made at Flint? Nearly chopped his broom in half! You’ve really got a great family for Quidditch.”

Percy nods crisply. Frankly, he couldn’t care less how anyone in his family flies, least of all Fred and George.

“You know,” Oliver adds, looking suddenly spacey and off into the distance, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you on a broom. Well, since flying class in first year, anyway.”

Percy dryly says, “Nor will you again.” And then he turns back to his book, because as much as he enjoys conversing with Oliver, this isn’t going anywhere he can follow. Not that Oliver ever talks about much besides Quidditch. Though it’s usually when they’re forced together like classes or after hours, and Oliver’s bored, and not when he should be downstairs partying. When Oliver doesn’t pick up on this fact, (perhaps he’s drunker than he sounds) Percy says dismissively, “Enjoy your celebration, Oliver.”

The frustratingly-not-quite-silence resumes for several minutes. Percy attempts to concentrate on his Transfiguration text and block out the sound of Oliver’s breathing, which is a surprisingly difficult task. The longer he does it, the more his ears start to burn. But he won’t look over. That would make it worse. He looks up, instead, when a sudden weight presses his mattress down—Oliver’s climbed onto it. Sprawled out at the end, Oliver says matter-of-factly, “You should fly more.”

Percy’s freckles have probably disappeared into his reddened cheeks. He counters, “You should study more.”

Oliver laughs. It’s a loud, confident sound, that fills the air with tingling warmth. Oliver collapses backwards with the force of it, falling onto his back and stretching out. He’s definitely not completely sober, Percy thinks, despite his still-coherent sentences. It wasn’t that funny. When he turns back to Percy, his face is alight with a wide smile, and he says brilliantly, “We’re a lot alike, Perce.”

Percy pushes his glasses up again and says, “We’re nothing alike.” Then he brings his knees up to his chest, folding the book over in his lap, to avoid his bare feet accidentally touching Oliver’s sides. Oliver’s jumper is riding up his stomach a little, revealing a sliver of his evident six-pack. But Percy can already visualize the whole of Oliver’s toned, naked body without the hint. He’s stared enough during showers, despite his best efforts. That rugged set of muscles is only the tip of the iceberg on how they’re so very, very not at all alike. Despite what Fred and George might say, Percy isn’t actually that arrogant.

Percy knows he’s a straight-laced, unpopular bookworm with only academic interests. (Other than Oliver.)

Oliver is a gorgeous, free, popular team captain who will probably end up a famous Quidditch star on one of Britain’s finest teams, of which Percy can only name the ones Oliver’s expressly told him about. When they’ve graduated, Percy will do his best to obtain an entry-level position at the Ministry and slowly grind his way up the intellectual and political ladder, eventually resting on some obscure, scholarly job that will hopefully be at least a hair better than his dad’s.

Chances are he’ll never hear from Oliver again when that happens. Which is partially why it surprises him when Oliver rolls over, eyebrows knit together, and adamantly insists, “No, we really are! Just about different things...”

Percy inelegantly replies, “You’re drunk.”

Oliver wrinkles his nose. “Not that drunk. Am I slurring? I feel okay. Kinda. Things aren’t spinning. ...Much...”

“I can smell it.”

Oliver frowns. “Oh. Er, sorry, Perce.”

“I’m also trying to study.” The minute it comes out of his mouth, Percy regrets saying it. It’s a force of habit, really—a defense mechanism after years of living with degrading, irritating brothers, who only share his company long enough to torture him. But Oliver isn’t like that. And he doesn’t want Oliver to go, not really. ...He just doesn’t know how to talk properly with a Quidditch star that really, really should be downstairs celebrating.

Oliver sits up bashfully, which is a strange look on him. He rubs at the back of his chestnut hair, and Percy’s eyes unconsciously follow the movement. Oliver’s jumper stretches a little across his chest, the gold stripe standing out against the crimson. Oliver’s grown a lot since he first got the jumper, and while Percy’s always happy to tailor it for him, Percy can never quite bring himself to correctly enlarge it that extra centimeter. This way it clings a little more than necessary, showing off Oliver’s very handsome form. Percy feels a tad bad about that, but ludicrously justifies it to himself by thinking tight clothes make Oliver that much more aerodynamic. ...And really, Oliver’s old enough to learn his own tailoring spells, anyway. So he’s taking advantage just as much as Percy.

Only Percy’s intentions are less than honourable, rather than simply lazy. Sometimes he wonders how he hasn’t been caught yet. He keeps all of Oliver’s clothes gorgeously form-hugging (only when asked to tailor them, of course) and he steals quite a few more sidelong glances than necessary, both in showers and just in the dormitory, when Oliver’s so casually stripping to parade around in boxers. Even now, Percy’s trying to continue his notes and yet can’t stop watching the way Oliver’s strong arms stretch tiredly over his head. Oliver yawns abruptly.

“Maybe I’ll just go to bed,” he mumbles, before looking to Percy. “Would that be okay, if I’m quiet?”

Percy blushes a little hotter. He has no reason to. But Oliver does that to him, and, in his defense, to more than half the girls in their year. What he means to say is, ‘you don’t have to go to bed because of me,’ but what he does say is, “If you’re quiet.”

But Oliver responds quickly, “You should fly.” Which is completely off-topic and unhelpful. “...And I mean we’re alike in that we’re both obsessive, even if it’s over different things. People make fun of my fanatical ways too, you know.” There’s a pause, and he adds, “Er, maybe a bit nicer, but...”

“People don’t make fun of you like me,” Percy says, more coldly than he means to. “I thought you were going to bed.”

Oliver shakes his head, “Ugh. That was bad of me, sorry.” He shifts a bit closer, and Percy has to draw his legs tighter to continue avoiding contact, cheeks flushing even darker. There’s no way Oliver won’t notice now. “It’s not right how everybody treats you—especially your brothers. I mean it. Just ‘cause you work hard. People should work hard for what they want, you know? I think Fred and George are just jealous you got all the brains. I admire you.”

Percy’s too busy blinking to do more than mumble, “You admire me...?” with emphasis on the ‘you’ and ‘me.’ Since when does Oliver have problems with the twins? They’re on his beloved team, after all. Percy feels like a deer caught in torchlight. “You... you’re really drunk...”

Oliver shakes his head adamantly. “No, I’m not! ...Well, maybe a little... but I mean it! They’re just jealous! ‘Cause you got all the brains, and the drive... and... and you know, everything.” He gestures off vaguely and shifts ever closer, so that his side hits Percy’s leg. Percy doesn’t have room to scrunch in any closer, unless he wants to simply bolt. Oliver repeats inelegantly, “They’re jealous.”

It’s hard for Percy to talk. His breath is coming faster than normal. “I very much doubt that.” Percy’s never been particularly fond of Quidditch uniforms—sports have never done much for him. But Oliver looks absolutely delicious in his sweater, and it gets Percy every time. Especially this close. Oliver still smells like sweat from the game, and masculine and alcoholic. It’s frighteningly intoxicating. Percy does his best to always keep control of his faculties, but inhaling that complex scent makes it so hard.

“They should be,” Oliver presses, and he moves again, oh so subtly, but now he’s right next to Percy, back leaning casually against Percy’s bent legs. The contact shoots electricity through his veins, and Percy’s helpless to look away. “You’re smart, and you’re motivated, and you’re complicated, and you’re beautiful—”

“I’m not—” Percy starts to say, because he’s not any of that, but then Oliver’s last words hit him and he falls irrevocably quiet. Did Oliver just...? Seriously? He couldn’t have. Percy’s hearing things. Oh, Merlin. Now Oliver’s putting his imagination so hard into overdrive it’s clouding reality. Honestly, he can’t believe Oliver’s ever had a single thought about him, let alone as... complimentary as all that.

Percy’s nothing. He knows that. He doesn’t feel that bad about it, and he isn’t that ashamed of it. He isn’t well-liked, he isn’t much to look at, and he’s even the black sheep of his own family. But that’s just who he is, and until it started interfering with his daydreams about a certain popular, incredibly handsome Quidditch star, it wasn’t really a problem. Oliver’s out of his league. He knows that.

Oliver’s leaning closer. He drapes one hand across Percy’s lap, over the forgotten textbook propped up against his chest. This puts Oliver scant centimeters from his face, and he can feel Oliver’s breath faintly against his skin. “I’m glad you came to see my match.”

Percy nods minutely, because he can’t form words. He keeps waiting for the inevitable laughter: the admission that this is all a big joke.

Oliver’s expression is just as serious and intense as it always is before a Quidditch match, giving Percy the odd illusion that he’s just as important. “I want to see you on a broom. On my broom.” His voice lowers and becomes husky, as he adds, “You’re so _cute_ , Percy.”

And then he’s leaning forward. Percy’s eyes flutter shut in spite of himself, breath hitching and lips parting. Oliver’s lips press chastely into his, slightly chapped, but still wonderfully soft. Their noses bump gently, and Oliver tilts his head, and Percy releases a shaky, needy gasp that rakes through his whole body. Oliver’s kissing him. _Oliver Wood is kissing him._

And Percy’s too completely overwhelmed to do anything about it. He’s completely rigid and yet trembling horribly when Oliver pulls back a second later. Percy follows the retreating lips a few centimeters before snapping back, head down. He won’t open his eyes. He can’t. He keeps them clenched shut so the illusion won’t shatter.

He feels his book and parchment slide from his lap and hears them landing on the floor. Oliver must’ve tossed them aside. Normally, Percy would protest. Oliver doesn’t respect books the way he should. But it’s just a book. Percy’s Percy. The close contact is making him heady. He can hear Oliver breathing, feel Oliver’s breath, taste the faint remnants of Firewhisky on his lips. How is this happening to him?

Nothing changes, and Percy’s forced to slowly, fearfully, open his eyes. When he does, Oliver’s right where he left him. Oliver mutters, “Sorry, I’m drunk.”

Percy licks his lips nervously and says, “I know. I told you.”

Oliver wrinkles his nose. “’Not that bad. ‘Still know I want this. Tell me if I’m being an idiot, yeah?”

Percy’s about to protest when Oliver leans forward again and closes the distance. Percy’s eyes slide shut again on instinct, and he turns his head the opposite way from Oliver. Their lips clash, and this time Oliver’s mouth opens against his—Percy doesn’t know what to do. He’s been kissed before, but never so well, so intently. He’s never had this kind of _spark_ that shoots all through his veins and sets his skin on fire. Oliver’s mouth is wet and so hot against his, and when Oliver’s tongue snakes into his mouth, Percy practically moans. If he were standing up, his knees would be buckling. He’s already trembling. Long, callous fingers slip behind his head and fist in his orange hair. Oliver pulls him in tight, and the pressure makes Percy extremely light-headed. He can barely breathe.

Oliver parts them just for a second so Percy can gasp in air, and then Oliver tilts his head the other way, going in from another angle. They kiss all over again, fierce, and rough, with Oliver exploring Percy’s mouth in every direction and him just whimpering. He tries to taste Oliver back—taste the bitter, burning leftovers and the spicy, sweet glow of just Oliver’s mouth. He pushes his tongue tentatively against Oliver’s, and they fight for a minute for dominance, before Oliver wins and Percy lets him. Percy’s kissing back fervently. Their mouths open and close against one another, wet and messy. Oliver’s fingers massage his scalp, and Percy might just be in heaven. 

Percy’s barely able to register the movement when his legs are gently pushed down. With the barrier gone, he turns his body into Oliver, and his hands automatically shoot to those strong shoulders, fisting in the thick uniform fabric. Oliver’s other arm snakes around his back, ducking down to his waist, trapped between the headboard.

Then Oliver tugs Percy so fast the air’s knocked right out of him, and he’s pulled down onto the mattress with a rather undignified squeak. He’s about to object, but Oliver straddles his waist and presses down atop him. It instantly silences Percy’s protests. He’s lying on a bed with Oliver Wood atop him. He’s going crazy.

He’s boiling up and wishes he had his robes around him to cover the fact that the prospect is rather... exciting. But then, a robe would put too much fabric between them. A cover-up would probably be in vain, anyway. Because Oliver leans down against him, lining up their bodies. Oliver’s legs are still straddling his, but their chests collide, and Percy can feel the prominent bulge in Oliver’s trousers. Why didn’t he notice that before? He’s no less interested, and now Oliver knows it. Oliver’s grinning broadly, hovering right over Percy’s face.

“Am I being an idiot?” Oliver asks anyway, politely, and as if for permission. Even though he’s already pulled Percy down and climbed atop him like an animal.

Percy nods. Because he’s incapable of not noticing stupidity, even when it’s wonderful. But he’s still blushing profusely, and his trousers are still not cooperating, so hopefully Oliver can tell that it’s in no way an order to stop.

Oliver just chuckles and repeats, “You’re so cute.” He bends down to peck the tip of Percy’s nose lightly. “I shoulda done this earlier. I’ve had my eye on you since first year.”

“You did not,” Percy says disbelievingly.

“Honest, did too! I mean, I didn’t know I was gay then, but I was still way too happy to share a dorm with just you. I didn’t want to share you anyway. It feels like you’re all mine.” He pauses before adding thoughtfully, “It’s a good thing too. I’d never have passed Potions last year without you.” ...Or half a dozen other subjects, Percy adds mentally.

But this isn’t the time for that. Percy mumbles, “We have other classmates.”

“But you don’t talk to them much,” Oliver says. “I know, I’ve watched. You used to talk with Clearwater every once in a while, but I have to say I was rather glad when that seemed to fizzle out.” Grinning mischievously, Oliver wonders aloud, “Honestly, when I came up to get you I didn’t think you’d kiss me back like that. When did you figure out you were gay too?”

“I had no idea you were paying that much attention,” Percy mumbles. He neglects to mention that he thinks he might actually be bisexual and Oliver’s assuming a lot. He also neglects to mention that that discovery came with the time Oliver returned from Hogsmeade completely smashed and slipped into Percy’s bed by mistake.

“I think about other things besides Quidditch, you know.”

Percy almost laughs. “No, you don’t.”

Oliver shifts forwards a little on his knees, and his arm slips out from under Percy’s back, so he can put his arms on either side of Percy’s torso and steady himself. This also rubs their crotches together again, and Percy ineffectively tries to stifle another moan. He arches up into Oliver before he can stop himself, and Oliver groans. He kisses Percy’s nose again, then cheek, then practically growls into his ear, “I want you so much.” Percy whimpers and slides his hands up to wrap around Oliver’s broad shoulders. “Can I have you?”

Percy’s lips part. He wants to purr, ‘Merlin, yes,’ but just nods. When Oliver only nuzzles into the side of his face, mouthing at his neck, one leg slipping between his, Percy whines, “Oliver...”

“I’m stronger than you,” Oliver growls, making Percy’s eyebrows knit and his face turn. Oliver looks absolutely feral. “I don’t want to force you.”

“What?” Percy’s subconsciously rubbing himself on Oliver’s thigh. It’s so hot he feels like his clothes will melt off—he’s burning. His head is one thick, foggy cloud. But he forces himself to groggily meet Oliver’s eyes. His glasses have tilted a bit during his fall, and he nods his head to slide them back into place. “Look, you’re... you’re drunk. You’re probably going to regret this tomorrow, but I’m not.” Then something wriggles against his chest, and Percy mumbles, “Oh, Merlin, you’re drunk... I’m taking advantage...?”

“You’re taking adventure?” Oliver dons a bemused smile. “Perce, I came up here to get _you_ , not the other way around.” 

Has he stopped blushing this whole night? “You...? You should... really be down there celebrating...”

“Mmm, I think I’d rather be up here.” Oliver’s grinning predatorily again and moves one large hand over Percy’s body, sliding onto his shirt. Oliver rubs a slow circle around Percy’s chest, palming his nipple through the fabric. Percy groans heavily. “I won, after all. Don’t you think I should get to pick my prize...?”

“Mmmm,” Percy mumbles incoherently, as Oliver’s hand sneaks ever further down his chest. It plays at the hem of his shirt, fingertips snaking to the thin line of flesh exposed. His shirt must’ve wrinkled up in the fall; he didn’t notice. Oliver glances down, eyes half-lidded and pupils dilated. His cheeks are a little flushed too, and Percy no longer thinks it’s just from the alcohol. Oliver’s _gorgeous_. When Oliver’s eyes return to Percy’s equally hazy ones, his chest _burns_.

His fingers card absently through Oliver’s messy brown hair. He wants to pull Oliver down again but doesn’t have the confidence to. Yet. Maybe on the second time they do this, or the third, when Percy knows he’s really wanted. If there are other times, of course, which he really hopes there will be...

Oliver closes the gap for him. He dives up to meet Oliver eagerly, mouth automatically opening. No need to waste time. Oliver shoves him back down into the pillows, flattening his body into the mattress. The warmth overwhelms him, the contact too much. Oliver’s hand is trapped between them, the tips of his fingers sliding just barely beneath Percy’s shirt, dancing across his stomach. Oliver crushes him down, heavy and full above him, squeezing the air out of his lungs and rubbing against his pulsing groin. It’s so much, and filling every one of his senses, to the point where Percy fears he might explode from this alone. But he wants to touch Oliver too. They make out feverishly and Percy slips his fingers down Oliver’s back, feeling his strong shoulder blades, his taught sides, the sexy dip in his back. Percy wants to cup Oliver’s ass. But he doesn’t know if it’s okay yet. He wants Oliver’s hands to touch his. He wants Oliver to touch him everywhere. Instead he runs his hands around Oliver’s sides and mirrors the movements. He tries to get his fingers under Oliver’s jumper and moans at the hard muscle he finds. Merlin, it’s to die for.

Why in the world would someone like Oliver want someone like him? He doesn’t understand. But he’s too high off the devastating sensations to worry about it right now. All he knows is that Oliver is very thoroughly and completely ravishing him, and it’s wonderful.

Oliver doesn’t part their lips as he starts to push Percy’s shirt farther up. It wrinkles and resists; there’s no space between their bodies. But Oliver’s stubborn and strong and makes it. He gets the shirt up Percy’s stomach, up his chest, tie crinkling up with the fabric, until it’s all the way to his armpits, exposing his nipples. They harden instantly from rubbing against Oliver’s chest; Percy’s rutting upwards. When did he start that? So embarrassing... but he can’t stop. Oliver’s grinding into him. He can feel Oliver’s huge bulge thrusting into him like a dog, and he feels like he can feel _everything_ but not quite enough. He wants to feel it in his hand, in his mouth, inside him. Their kisses are frantic and messy, and saliva’s starting to dribble down Percy’s chin. He holds Oliver so tightly, never wanting him to leave.

But Oliver pulls back to scatter just-as-fervent kisses across his lips, across his chin, down his jaw, down his throat. Percy whimpers at the loss, arching up into Oliver’s firm body, which holds him down. Oliver kisses all down Percy’s neck, licks his collarbone, makes him moan and beg. Oliver skips over his shirt and licks a hard line down his chest—Percy positively screams. Were the silencing spells he cast double-sided? But it’s so loud downstairs, no one should hear him. Percy’s heart is beating louder than the muffled din now. His heaving breathing’s getting worse, making his chest rise and swell into Oliver, and Oliver dips his tongue into Percy’s navel. He runs it back up to one of Percy’s nipples, and Percy cries out again as Oliver’s mouth closes around the hard nub. He laps at it and sucks, tenderly scraping his teeth against it and tugging gently. Percy’s fingers run back to fist in Oliver’s hair, and he groans, “O-Ol...”

He tries to arch his chest and look down, but he can practically feel Oliver grinning around his nipple. Oliver’s lips are kiss-swollen and wet. Percy drops his head back into the pillows. As transfixing as Oliver is, Percy doesn’t have the strength to hold his head up. He’s boneless. Oliver releases his nipple with a wet ‘pop’ and continues to slither down his chest, tongue tasting everywhere. Percy’s writhing and moaning but can’t stop. Oliver nips at his fly, and Percy’s so close he thinks he just might shamefully come before it gets open.

Oliver’s long fingers run down Percy’s sides to cup him through his trousers, and Percy whimpers loudly. With a wide, hungry smile, Oliver catches Percy’s zipper in his teeth.

That’s when the door bursts open, and Fred exclaims loudly, “Oi! Oliver! We’re about to do the—”

Percy shoots up instantly, knocking Oliver off him. He’s red up to his ears and hurriedly shoves his shirt back down, gaping at the open door. His brothers gape right back. They’re open mouthed and wide eyed. There’s a tiny, tiny spark of triumph in Percy’s stomach; he’s never shocked the twins before. But mostly, he’s just horrified.

“Don’t you two know how to knock?” Oliver grumbles irritably, straightening out next to Percy. Oliver casually shifts so that his legs cover Percy’s lap, hopefully hiding his now-slightly-wilting problem.

“Wow,” Fred says.

“You must be really drunk,” George says.

“Really, really drunk, if you’re gonna hit on Percy,” Fred adds.

“You know Angelina’s single, right?”

“Or Katie.”

“Or, you know...”

“Anyone else.”

“Hell, if you’re that hard up even we’d help you out,” George says, with a wrinkled nose.

“We’d have to,” Fred nods solemnly. “You should’ve said something—we wouldn’t never let you resort to this!”

Oliver jumps off the bed in a heartbeat and demands firmly, like the captain he is, “Not now! Get out!” Percy jumps a little, since the noise is right next to him. Personally, he’s not all that bothered with the twins’ teasing; he’s been enduring it for as long as he can remember. Oliver, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to be taking too kindly to it.

But the twins are either too drunk to notice or simply don’t care. They stroll casually over to where Oliver’s standing between the beds and each loop an arm around his. Oliver struggles momentarily, but they tighten their grips and start to frog-march him out. “Can’t miss the toast! You’re the captain!” George insists.

“Besides, you’d kill us in the morning if we let you miss it!” Fred chirps.

They’re halfway to the door when Oliver practically roars, “I’m going to kill you in the morning if you drag me out of here!”

“Don’t worry,” George tells him, and they’re now at the door. “We’ll get you another bottle, and you’ll forget all about Percy, thank Merlin!”

“Not that his ugly mug’s easy to forget!”

And with that, they slam the door behind themselves, leaving Percy alone in a very empty, cold room.

* * *

They’re right, of course. Oliver can do better—in particular, anyone else. And he’s probably drinking happily downstairs, completely forgetting all the stupid stuff he said and did with Percy. An hour later, and Percy’s resumed staring at his Transfiguration notes without really writing anything.

He can’t concentrate. Not at all. He doesn’t want to think about it, though, because that would hurt worse.

So he retires to bed early and sleeps obstinately facing away from the door, trying desperately not to wonder if Oliver’s having fun.

* * *

It’s a weekend, but Percy’s natural alarm clock wakes him up at seven o’clock sharp anyway.

The sun is bright, like it always is this time of year, streaming into his eyes as he blinks them groggily open. He rubs them faintly, stretching out in his night robe. He rolls over onto his side in order to reach for his nightstand and retrieve his glasses.

This rolls him right into the hard body of someone else, which elicits a surprised squeak from him and a sleepy grunt from the other person.

Percy doesn’t need his glasses to recognize Oliver, which is good. Because he’s certainly not about to stretch over said person and reach his glasses. He’ll just have to make do with general shapes, stretching their arms and legs just a few centimeters away. Percy can smell Oliver’s morning breath when he yawns, still faintly bitter.

While Oliver shakes himself to consciousness, Percy mumbles, with a full-body blush, “You’re in the wrong bed.”

“Hm?” Oliver sniffs and rolls dazedly over to blink at his own bed. He turns back to Percy and mutters, “M’no, ‘m good.” And he nods and snuggles right back into the pillows.

Percy’s rigid for a few moments, mostly in shock. Then he takes the courage to reach over Oliver and gather his glasses, because he needs to see Oliver’s face to know he isn’t being mocked. But when he slips them on, Oliver looks just as peaceful as he did blurry, curled up cutely in Percy’s sheets and pillows.

Oliver’s still fully dressed from last night. Or at least, he’s still wearing his jumper. Percy’s not about to check under the blankets. He looks just as delicious as he did last night, if not even more so, because now he’s actually _under Percy’s blankets_ with his hair mussed. Percy might be hyperventilating.

He wants to say something reasonable, but he’s a tad too freaked out to do that. His voice comes out higher pitched than usual, and he scolds as sternly as he can manage, “Oliver!”

Oliver claps one hand over his ear and mutters, “Hey, not so loud, geez...”

“You’re in my bed!”

Oliver blinks blearily up at him, and Percy flushes further and feels bad for frowning and shouting.

After a minute of this relative standstill, Oliver concedes, “Ugh, sorry.” Then he pushes himself up to sit on the bed, which takes two tries. “...M’sorry.” He rubs at his face again. “...’S bad of me, I shouldn’ta just climbed in here...”

Percy quietly sniffs, “That’s okay.” He pauses before adding, “That’s exactly why you shouldn’t drink so much.” He sits up next to Oliver and smoothes the blankets over his lap tentatively. Oliver drops a hand onto his, and Percy stares at it. It takes a second for him to manage to rip his eyes away, back up to Oliver’s face.

Oliver looks a little crestfallen. “...I’m sorry. Really. ...I remember most of what happened last night, before I got sucked back into the party. ...Er... I thought you were okay with it, so...” He’s frowning sheepishly: an adorable look on such a sturdy man. “But, if you’re not—”

“No, no!” Percy blurts, even though he’s still confused. He feels silly. But Oliver looks so guilty that Percy feels the need to reassure him, “No, really. I... I was okay with it. I just... I mean, you were really drunk...”

“Ugh.” Oliver’s fingers leave Percy’s so he can drop his head into his hands, rubbing at his face. “That was so stupid! I’m sorry, Perce, you deserve better...”

That wasn’t at all what Percy meant. But he doesn’t need to clarify, since it becomes clear from Oliver’s words that the confessions aren’t what Oliver regrets.

“I should’ve done that way better. I swear I didn’t mean it to turn out like that, I was just all excited after the match, and I just really wanted to celebrate, and you weren’t at the party, so...” He trails off and then pauses, before looking more seriously at Percy, eyes glinting in the early morning light. “I’m sorry. You deserve better.”

Percy mumbles, “That’s alright.”

He feels sort of awe-struck. That feeling doesn’t at all dissipate when Oliver leans over to place a sloppy, closed-mouth kiss to his lips. Percy grunts in surprise but presses into it. His eyes flutter closed, and he takes a deep breath of _Oliver_. When Oliver pulls back again, they’re both smiling. He wasn’t expecting it to turn out like that at all.

“Do you want to go to dinner tonight, in Hogsmeade?” Oliver asks, brightened right up, like it’s all been worked out and they’re casual again. “I don’t have practice today. Er, unless you have to study, that is.” He rubs the back of his head. “We should have a proper date though, before I ravish you some more.”

Percy’s insides are a fluttering, warm mess. He’s not sure what he can afford, but that doesn’t matter right now. He really should study, but that... surprisingly doesn’t matter. He’ll fit this in. He says, “Okay,” when he means, ‘I’d love to.’

Oliver grins goofily and pecks him again. When he’s done, Percy repeats the peck. A third, short kiss, and Oliver opens his mouth, and Percy does too, and it turns deeper. Oliver tastes worse than yesterday. But it’s still good, and Percy still doesn’t want to stop.

Oliver stops first. He mutters, “Mmm,” dreamily and promptly collapses back into the bed, bouncing lightly in the pillows. He looks up at Percy and opens his arms. Percy hesitates only a few seconds before snuggling into them, lying half on Oliver’s chest. Oliver keeps an arm around his waist, and he drapes an arm over Oliver. “It’s too early to move; let’s just sleep in.” Oliver tells him, to which he nods uncharacteristically, although he never sleeps in. “And I’m too hung-over.”

Percy sighs before he can stop himself, “I guess you’re not _that_ bad a drunk.”

Oliver laughs and kisses him on the nose. Percy smiles, glowing.


End file.
